


Three Angsty Christmases and One Fluffy New Year

by not_thepresident



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Holidays, Love, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28447926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_thepresident/pseuds/not_thepresident
Summary: Four holiday snapshots of Draco and Hermione's relationship.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 78





	Three Angsty Christmases and One Fluffy New Year

**Author's Note:**

> just a couple of ideas I couldn't get out of my head. happy holidays!

* * *

2001

* * *

The office door was blank. It had been the entire season, but it hadn’t bothered her until today. Hermione stared at its blankness, her nerves eating up at her. She raised her fist, rearing back to knock, only to pause, her resolve failing as she lowered her head, her fingers pinching at the bridge of her nose.

He would be a dick if she knocked. He was a dick all the time, honestly. She pressed into her eye, hesitantly turning her wrist over and glancing at the golden, dainty watch face. It had been a gift from Ron, before, well, everything. She never particularly enjoyed it, feeling as if it didn’t suit her, but now she couldn’t bear a day without it.

19:43. Late. On Christmas, no less. Dinner had started at the Burrow nearly three hours ago. Hermione had a reason to be late, of course; they all knew it. She dropped her hands heavily, as if they were pulling her to the floor.

Why on earth would she try to make this worse than it already was?

She sighed deeply, her feet restless. Hermione began to pace in front of the white, blank, empty office door. She knew it was open, unlocked. He never locked his door; she supposed that he thought his temperament was enough to keep others away, and usually, it did. She paused and glanced at the door, pressing her fingers over her mouth.

If there was any time to be a dick, it would be now.

_“How could you possibly fuck this up?”_

_Hermione slowly looked up from the floor, her eyes widening. Kingsley was bracing himself against the desk, glowering spectacularly at her colleague. His dark green robes shimmered under the harsh, fluorescent lights; certainly, a holiday choice, and yet it did nothing to ease the tension in the room. She had never heard Kingsley speak like that, much less look like he was about to upend the desk itself._

_She pressed her lips together, sparing a quick glance at his back. She could see his shoulders rise in his black suit jacket, a bad habit in stressful situations that she’d come to recognize. She didn’t even have to see his face. Hermione knew that if there was one person who could match Kingsley’s gaze, it would be him._

_“He was unwavering—”_

_“Negotiate!” Kingsley shouted._

_“I tried!” Draco shouted back, advancing toward the desk. _

_“Yes, you tried,” Kingsley mocked, his eyes narrowing. “You tried to negotiate. You tried to remain cordial. You tried to fight against the Dark Lord’s wishes.”_

_Hermione blinked, her mouth parting. She took a step forward, a protest at the tip of her tongue, but Draco beat her to it._

_“Don’t throw my words back at me,” Draco hissed venomously._

_“Stop using ‘I tried’ as an excuse for your life, then, Mister Malfoy,” Kingsley shot back._

_“You told me the conditions you weren’t willing to lose!” Draco threw his arms outward, before gesturing toward his chest. “ I negotiated until those conditions were the only ones left, and he still didn’t agree! You told me to do that!”_

_“I didn’t tell you to lose the support of the entire French ministry!” Kingsley boomed, slamming his hands against the desk._

_Hermione flinched, backing even further into the corner of the room. Draco straightened, his dragon hide shoes sliding against the floor, away from the desk._

_“I didn’t—”_

_“Yes, you did!” Kingsley spat. “You’ve lost access to the translations. You’ve ruined my holiday, you’ve ruined her holiday,” he spewed, pointing at Hermione, “and though I’m quite certain that there isn’t any sort of happiness in that blasted manor you call a home, your holiday is ruined.”_

_Hermione closed her eyes, wanting to will herself out of the room entirely. If she could disintegrate, it would be a miracle. There was a shuffling of papers, a slow shuffle of shoes, until she heard Kingsley fall into his chair._

_“If I could fire you, Mister Malfoy, take solace in the fact that I would. Thank whoever decided to take pity on you that this is a court appointed position.”_

Hermione swallowed. Yes, if getting a mouthful from the Minister of Magic wasn’t an excuse to be a dick, then she didn’t know what was. She glanced at the door handle, before checking her watch again.

19:45. On Christmas.

Lifting her chin, she approached his door, knocking lightly and pulling at the handle.

As she expected, the window was open, letting in a chill breeze as it let out the foul smoke that inhabited his office. It was another bad habit she had picked up on during the nearly two-month stint of working together: Draco smoked. A lot. Especially when he was upset, which seemed to be all the time, most often for reasons she couldn’t exactly place but could probably infer if she cared enough.

_You care enough to knock on his door, though._

Hermione gritted her teeth. It was Harry’s voice in her head. A bad habit of hers was thinking about what Harry would say during the two-month long stint of working together. She didn’t know when _he_ suddenly became the voice of reason.

Draco had his head on the desk (presumably slammed there), and his right hand was absentmindedly combing through his platinum hair, while his left hand gripped the lit cigarette a little too tightly. Hermione stared at him, coming to terms with knowing _exactly_ when Harry became the voice of reason: the day he decided to try and befriend Draco.

It wasn’t exactly going well, but Harry was overwhelmingly positive about the whole idea.

“ _What_ are you doing here?”

Hermione stiffened, his muffled voice surprising her. She hadn’t even said anything.

“Granger,” he drawled, and she realized she didn’t even know what to say. Some help, her Gryffindor courage was. _Oh, go ahead, knock on the door Hermione, but after that I can’t help you._

Draco lifted his head slightly, his gaze dark. “Get in or get out, for fuck’s sake,” he ordered. “Obviously, I’d prefer the latter.”

Hermione lifted her chin, fully letting herself into his office and shutting the door behind her. She ignored how his eyes narrowed as she sat primly in one of the chairs across from him. She knew _he_ ignored how the chair nearly collapsed into dust as she sat; it was one of the many things he complained about, the rickety chairs that “barely performed their duties as inanimate objects.”

“Since when have you done anything I prefer,” Draco muttered, pushing himself off the desk and sitting back, bringing the cigarette to his lips.

Hermione watched as he blew the smoke out of his nose, as it puffed around his head. It reminded her of his namesake, without all the regality, of course. He tapped the end into an ashtray, his other hand gesturing lazy circles toward her.

“Faster conversations, Granger.”

Hermione’s jaw clenched. She hated when he did that.

“I’m thinking of what to say,” she said defensively.

Draco’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You knocked on my door,” he said lowly, leaning his elbow against the desk, “you came into my office, and you have the audacity to fail at an opening line?”

“I apologize,” Hermione bristled. “I wasn’t aware I should be anything less than speechless over what just occurred.”

“ _And_ you intend to rehash what Shacklebolt has already said to me,” Draco quipped. He leaned back again, throwing his face to the ceiling. “I do not need another lecture, as much as you like providing them.”

“If I wanted to lecture, I’d be turning in my resignation and applying to Hogwarts.”

“Suits you. I think you should. On a separate note, any children that I have will not be attending.”

“Draco—”

“I fucked up, Granger,” he said shortly.

Hermione froze, balking slightly. He continued to stare at the ceiling, his face impassive.

“I fucked up,” he repeated, his voice like gravel. “I fucked up my court appointed job, just as I fuck up providing for my destitute mother, just as I fuck up _every. visit._ I make to my increasingly senile father, just as I fucked up my entire shit life.”

His throat bobbed, and he took another drag from the cigarette. He threw it out the window without stabbing it out.

“I do not need you to tell me,” he said quietly.

Hermione fingered at the hem of her skirt, her palms suddenly clammy. It felt like her heart was in her mouth.

“You did everything right.”

Draco immediately twisted, his brow furrowing.

“You did everything right, Draco,” Hermione said, refusing to let her voice shake. “It’s not your fault that the French ministry already hates us. It’s not your fault that you’re the only legal counsel that can speak French. It’s not your fault that Kingsley sent you on a mission that was doomed to fail.”

Hermione licked her lips, and she lifted her chin, her gaze hardening. “And it’s _certainly_ not your fault that he took his anger out on you.”

Draco stared at her like she had grown three heads. She felt like she had herself.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Nothing.

“What?”

Draco let out a huff. “I’m thinking of what to say.”

Hermione pursed her lips and raised a brow. “You had the audacity to fail at a closing line?”

The silence was deafening as they competed in a staring contest. Hermione could barely hear the ticks of her watch. After what seemed like hours, Draco let out a breath of a laugh, his lips splitting into a fine smile.

_You care enough to like it when he smiles_.

Merlin, she’d kill Harry when she saw him next. Because she did. He rarely smiled, it was true, and he acted like being a dick was an artform, but her breath caught every time he smiled. He could make the sun rise early with it.

“Come to dinner with me,” Hermione blurted.

She expected his smile to fade, and it did, but only slightly. She expected him to stand, fueling some hate-induced black hole inside him with a horrid insult. Instead, he brought his hand over his mouth, his eyes glinting like fine silver.

“Why in the hell would I do that?” he asked.

There was no malice. Hermione recognized his voice; he used it with his clients. It was a challenge.

“It’s late,” she started evenly. “I’ve decided I’m not going to the Burrow, mostly because it’s late, but also because a small part of me wants to vomit at the thought of seeing Ron slobber over Lavender Brown as I eat reheated turkey.”

“It does taste different, doesn’t it?” he taunted lightly, his eyebrow quirking.

“Which means that I’m going to eat out for dinner, since we’ve just arrived from Paris and I have no food in my house due to an extended business trip. I know that you have no plans, since you were obviously intending to hole up and smoke yourself to death—”

“You didn’t necessarily need to point that out.”

“—and no one should eat alone for Christmas,” Hermione finished.

Her fingers were practically wringing out the end of her skirt now. Her chest constricted as he tapped a finger against his mouth, the onyx Malfoy ring flashing under the dull light. Draco finally leaned forward, a coy smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Fuck it. Let’s go.”

* * *

2003

* * *

Hermione was going to attack Ron’s head with canaries again. Scratch that, she was going to attack the entire Weasley family with canaries for the first time. Part of her couldn’t even believe he was sitting in front of her, staring at his hands as he folded and refolded them against the table. The golden ring on his left finger caught dazzlingly under the small chandelier above them, the tiny row of diamonds exploding into prisms when he fidgeted right.

Her jaw clenched. Draco had suggested the jeweler. Lavender’s ring was even more spectacular, since she enjoyed nice things so much. Ron’s was much simpler, and yet eye-catching all the same. Hermione couldn’t imagine anyone trying to throw themselves at him with a ring like that; it was impossible to ignore.

Then again, she hated Ron so much right now that she couldn’t even believe _she_ had once thrown herself at him.

Ron grimaced, scratching at the back of his neck before hesitantly glancing up at her. His mouth parted, gaping open and closed like a dumb little fish.

“‘Mione,” he sighed out, dropping his hand with a defeated thump on the table. “Are we really doing this?”

Hermione’s arms tightened across her chest, her fingers digging painfully – as painfully as they could under the broil of anger – into her bicep. Yes, they _were_.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Hermione said evenly, slightly surprised that her voice didn’t shake. Maybe Draco was rubbing off on her.

“Hermione—”

“I think that this is a conversation you should have with _him_ , don’t you agree?”

Ron deflated, sinking back into his chair. “No,” he muttered, shaking his head helplessly. “I don’t particularly agree.”

Hermione shivered, and she twisted toward the window, catching Draco’s platinum hair entering their wards before exiting out of view.

“That’s just too bad,” Hermione said, facing him again. “He’s home.”

Ron was behaving like the chair was quicksand, shrinking into the darkened oak and appearing increasingly anxious. Hermione sniffed, crossing one leg over another under the table, waiting.

The front door popped open, and for a moment, she almost thought it had been slightly ajar, the harsh wind outside pushing it open. When Draco finally made his way into the parlor, Hermione’s blood pressure skyrocketed.

He was tired. Draco frowned at the floor as he entered, not sparing a glance toward the table as he drifted to the far away counter. His eyes were so pale against the dark circles under his eyes, the ones that painted him skeletal. Hermione glared into his back as he set his wand on the counter, his fingertips pausing on the marble for longer than necessary.

It wasn’t a new development that Draco was tired. Just an incredibly frustrating, no, incredibly infuriating commonality to the rest of the year. Hermione was sure she had popped a blood vessel in her eye more than once because of everyone else around them.

What was one more time, really?

“Sorry,” Draco called. He started to drag off his suit jacket, revealing that he hadn’t even bothered to roll down his sleeves. The Dark Mark winked at them, the dark eye sockets appearing to glint maliciously despite being terribly still. Hermione decided a long time ago that the mark was playing tricks on her.

“Ava fucked something up,” Draco continued, sighing heavily. “We can still make it if you’re ready now.”

“Draco,” Hermione said coolly.

He immediately turned on his heel. He stood there a moment, his brow slowly furrowing, his eyes darting between them like there was a tennis match in front of him.

“Yes?”

“We have a visitor,” Hermione supplied, gesturing to Ron.

“Hi, Malfoy,” Ron said weakly, his hand lifting in a poor example of greeting.

Draco didn’t move. There was a buzzing in Hermione’s ear, her chest threatening to constrict.

“Is this an intervention or something?” he finally asked, his palms running against his back pockets. “I only smoked _once_ today.”

“Good for you,” Hermione said, her head cocking dangerously.

Draco blinked. “Why does that sound like the absolute opposite of praise?”

“Ronald,” Hermione clipped, fixing her gaze to the other end of the table, “why don’t you tell Draco what you just told me?”

Ron inhaled sharply, turning over his shoulder to give her a pitiful, pleading look.

“Hermione—”

“Go on,” she chided.

“I really don’t think—”

“I never took you for someone who didn’t have balls,” Hermione snapped.

Ron balked, his mouth shutting with a snap. Hermione ignored the way Draco tilted his head, his eyebrow raising.

“Be a damn Gryffindor, Ron,” Hermione ordered.

“Hermione!”

“Tell. Him.”

“Fine!” Ron nearly shouted, his bright blue eyes darkening. He stood from his seat, and something in Hermione snapped at the loud screech against the tile.

“Malfoy, you’re not invited to Christmas dinner at the Burrow,” Ron said quickly.

To anyone else, Draco might appear as if he wasn’t exactly processing what was happening. His shoulders slowly dropped as he fisted his hands in his pockets, his face remained unchanged as the silence suffocated all of them. But Hermione knew him; she knew the gears were turning in his head. They were fast gears, faster than hers; sometimes she thought he had Seeing ability, before reminding herself that the idea was preposterous. In two years, Hermione hadn’t figured out what the gears turned over – Draco was aggressively good at appearing as unassuming and impassive as a rock, his thoughts secret to everyone but himself. She thought she knew how he’d react to this, though.

Draco bit the tip of his tongue for a moment. “I see,” he said evenly.

Hermione blinked. That was _not_ how she thought he’d react.

“I don’t think you do,” Hermione retorted quietly.

Draco’s eyes flashed. Any other day, any other time, any other situation, it would have been the first alarm bell.

“I don’t think you see that an entire family has decided that their prejudiced beliefs are far more important than spending a holiday with people they love.”

Ron’s face contorted. He stepped toward the table, his tongue ready to fly.

“Granger,” Draco said lowly, stopping Ron in his tracks with his tone alone.

There was the second bell. Hermione _did not_ care. The floor could crack open and reveal the seventh circle of hell before swallowing the entire house whole, and she wouldn’t bat an eye.

“Not to mention that it’s incredibly disrespectful to continue to cling to _antiquated_ , _hateful_ beliefs when the war has been over for five _fucking_ years—”

“Granger!”

Hermione flinched. The heat in her cheeks faded, and she stopped jabbing her finger into the table so hard. She stared at Draco, her mouth frozen, her tongue losing any ability to form a coherent word, along with her mind losing any ability to form a coherent thought; besides one, that is. 

He was angry at her. Draco had raised his voice at her; he never raised his voice, not now, not in two years, and especially not to her. He was angry at _her_.

Draco ran his hand over his mouth as he stared at the ground. “Come here,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper, and he started toward the living room.

“No! I’m not—!”

“ _Get_ in here,” Draco hissed, rounding on her and pointing toward the living room. He didn’t wait for her, either.

Hermione pushed herself away from the table, ignoring the loud protest of her seat and stalking after him.

“I don’t appreciate you raising your voice,” she seethed, as soon as they were out of sight.

Draco swatted through the air, a _muffliato_ escaping his lips breathily.

“And I _don’t_ appreciate being interrupted.” Hermione advanced toward him, her hands fisting at her sides, her fingernails digging into her palms.

Draco raised an eyebrow, one end of his mouth turning downwards. After a moment, his hand lazily drew circles in front of her face, taunting her.

_Faster conversations, Granger._

Hermione nearly snarled. She was beyond frustrated; leave it to Draco to be a dick for the sake of being a dick.

“Why are you angry with me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, afraid it would fail her otherwise.

Draco took a step forward; the shadows seemed to draw around him, following his every step, reminding her of what exactly he was capable of. “You,” he accused, pointing at her chest, “are using me.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “I am not!”

He folded his arms across his chest, straightening and tilting his head. Waiting.

“I am dispensing a proper obliteration that is years behind schedule!”

“That’s not what you’re doing,” Draco said quickly, shaking his head.

Hermione took a page from his book, straightening and crossing her arms. “Enlighten me, then,” she challenged tightly. “What _exactly_ am I doing?”

“You are using my feelings to guilt trip an entire family,” Draco answered simply.

Hermione’s stomach dropped to the floor. Was that what she was doing? She hadn’t intended to. She felt the world come to a crashing halt; she was completely thrown off her axis. She couldn’t even take her eyes off him, his gaze being the only thing grounding her. His jaw clenched, and his chest rose and fell heavily as he threw his eyes to the ceiling.

“You’re going,” Draco said, avoiding her stare.

Hermione balked. “Absolutely not.”

“Granger.”

“I won’t go!”

His chin tilted downward, his eyes hardening like stone. “I’m not letting you throw away a decade of friendship over me.”

“That’s not what I’m doing!” Hermione erupted, throwing her arms to her sides. When he didn’t answer, she took a step forward jabbing into her chest with her fingers. “If anything, I am throwing away a decade of friendship because they refuse to support who I am with.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco huffed, throwing his hands into the air. He twisted away from her for a moment, staring into the living room. “You _cannot_ be this antagonistic all the time.”

Hermione gritted her teeth. “ _Excuse_ me?”

When he faced her again, Hermione’s heart nearly stopped. The anger was gone; he looked upset, as upset as he allowed himself to appear around her, which wasn’t very much, and wasn’t very often. She had always been good a cataloging information, though; his tells were subtle, but she was always good at picking up on the subtleties of life.

“I’m not worth this,” Draco said quietly, his shoulders sagging.

She knew better than to address that. They could argue for days over what Draco was worth.

“It’s disrespectful,” Hermione mustered.

“It’s not.”

“It’s been five years.”

“Yes, and people died.”

Hermione took a step backwards. Draco sighed, closing his eyes briefly before shielding them with his hand. Her gaze followed the lines of his fingers, down his wrist, catching the swirl of the black serpent tattooed against his forearm, dark against his skin. Carried with him everywhere, no matter how often he kept his sleeves down, no matter how many layers he wore.

“Hey,” Hermione hushed. She approached him, her heart sinking as he turned away more. He didn’t quite step away, though. She reached for his wrist, finding no resistance as she pulled his hand away. “Hey,” she repeated, craning her neck as he twisted his face away, hiding his chin in his shoulder.

Draco exhaled through his nose, avoiding her eyes. “Hi,” he whispered.

Hermione breathed out a laugh, then reached over his shoulder, her fingers sliding through his silky hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he interrupted.

“I’m just…” Hermione took a deep breath, shaking her head slightly. His head slowly turned, and she shifted her hand, thumbing at his cheek as she thought. She bit her lip as she met his eyes again, her breath catching slightly. Like clouds with silver linings.

“Why can’t my name be good enough for both of us?” she said sadly.

Draco threw up his eyebrows, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “That’s rather egotistical of you.”

“You’re one to talk,” Hermione teased, unable to stop her smile.

Draco shook his head, his own smile fading. “My ego has been through the wringer, Granger.”

Hermione pressed her lips together, following her fingers as she pushed a lone strand of hair behind his ear. To anyone else, he carried the year well. Starting a private law company came with the expectation of failure; Harry had told her how surprised he was at Draco’s composure. But she had seen the dark circles grow, his temperament fade, the way his shoulders rose before he went to work, the way his jaw clenched when someone hit his shoulder a little too hard as they passed by in Diagon Alley. It broke her heart as much as it fueled her anger.

But she knew he wouldn’t want to talk about it. Not now, not tonight, and probably not tomorrow.

“Do you think we’ll make our reservation?” she asked suddenly, lifting his chin.

“Oh, we’re making it,” Draco affirmed, the relief clear on his face. When he met her eyes again, they were lighter, analyzing her face like it would be the last time he saw her.

“I need to have a conversation first, though,” he said.

Hermione blinked, her hand falling slightly as she raised an eyebrow.

“Come on, Granger,” Draco drawled, cocking his head. “Did you really think Weasley was getting off easy?”

“I thought _I_ wasn’t letting him get off easy.”

“Where’s the faith?” he chided lightly, lifting his chin. “I guarantee I’ll do better.”

Hermione bit her lip, fighting against her smile before patting against his chest lightly.

“I’ll wait here.”

* * *

2006

* * *

Hermione’s hair was getting frizzier by the moment, she was sure of it. She blew back a strand of hair, letting out a groan when it returned to the exact place it was before – in her face. It was going to frustrate her to no end if she had to put her hair up tonight; it would ruin the entire ensemble.

She gathered the diced tomatoes on the cutting board as best she could before throwing them into the pot. She peered into the boiling, red soup, biting her lip. The recipe was perfect – her mother’s – but she couldn’t help but feel anxious. Everything had to go well; she wouldn’t hear the end of it if she organized a terrible party.

There was a jingling at the front door, the bells hanging off the knob banging against it as it was opened. Hermione rolled her eyes. _Finally_.

“You’re late!” she called, grabbing an onion and slicing it in half with a bang against the cutting board.

“Sorry,” Draco answered. There was a fumbling in the foyer, the rusting of a coat being thrown on the floor. Hermione’s eyes widened and she twisted away from the counter, catching a flash of nearly white hair.

“Don’t throw that on the floor!” she screeched. “There are people coming!”

“I _dropped_ it, Granger,” he drawled back. “Merlin, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

She didn’t turn away until she saw him bend over, retrieving the coat. “How was it?” she asked, dicing the onion with quick, perfect strokes.

“They are fucked parents.”

Hermione choked out a laugh. “They can’t be that bad.”

“No, they’re perfect at being parents. They’re fucked because of that kid.”

Hermione threw up her eyebrows, not quite ready to agree with him. She loved Isaac, but she knew from the moment she saw him that he was going to be trouble.

“I could have told you that,” she finally said. “He was chaotic since birth.”

“How the hell did you figure that?” Draco drawled. His footsteps were approaching the kitchen, the sharp clacks against the floor echoing slightly through the house. “He’s a _baby_.”

“Just look at his parents,” Hermione scoffed. “Daphne always has her nose in everything, and Theo can barely keep his mouth shut. That combination is frightful in a child.”

“You know, I don’t insult _your_ friends half as much as you insult mine—”

Hermione frowned, pausing from cutting at the onions. She twisted her head, seeing Draco standing in the entrance of the kitchen, his mouth agape.

“What?” she asked innocently.

“ _What_ are you doing?”

She couldn’t help the pull of her cheeks, her lips splitting into a wide smile. “I’m making dinner.”

Draco slowly leaned his shoulder against the wall, his eyes dragging over her from head to toe. His tongue stuck into his cheek, hiding a smile in return. He finally lifted his hand, gesturing toward her vaguely.

“And this?”

Hermione furrowed her brow, sticking out her bottom lip. She looked down, examining the large, horrifying Christmas sweater, a bright and garish red that perfectly matched the Santa hat on her head.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You mean this!”

Draco shook his head. “You are—”

“I just thought it was proper for the occasion.”

“Impossible,” he finished, sidling up to the counter. He rested his hip against it, unable to take his eyes off her. Hermione lifted her chin, enjoying every moment of his stunned behavior.

“It’s hideous,” Draco finally said, ripping his eyes off her outfit.

“It’s _Christmas_ , Draco,” Hermione scolded. “Have a little spirit.”

“I _have_ spirit,” he scoffed lightly. He leaned over the pot, squinting against the steam as it rose into his face. “When are they coming?”

“Oh, let’s see…” Hermione sighed. She set her knife on the cutting board and flipped her wrist, pushing back the obnoxious sweater sleeve to reveal her golden watch. “Harry and Ginny are coming in about an hour. Everyone else is later.”

Draco hummed, reaching across from her to grab a block of cheese. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him as he popped it into his mouth. He ignored her.

“Are they bringing—”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“James?”

“No.”

Draco closed his eyes, pumping his fist in silent celebration.

“Why?” Hermione giggled, picking up the knife and continuing to chop again.

“I can’t wait to see Potter hammered,” Draco said gleefully.

“Merlin, Draco—”

“Come _on_ , it’ll be so fun.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure Harry can’t wait to be hammered,” Hermione muttered. “James is worse than Isaac.”

“Toddlers tend to be shit,” Draco supplied.

“And you _know_ they’d somehow drop him with _me_ , despite his general displeasure at my existence.”

“James loves you.”

“Even though I have a whole party run, dinner to prepare—”

“Do you want help?”

“No,” Hermione sighed. She frowned at the onions, gathering them up and throwing them into the pot. Draco was a terrible cook, as she always expected, but that didn’t stop him from offering. He was a much better host than she was, though; she assumed it was the pureblood charisma, handed down by his mother.

“Actually,” Hermione said slowly, reaching for a pepper. “You know what you can do?”

Draco hummed again. He was frowning at the counter, his lower lip pouted slightly as he fingered at a dent in the marble.

“Pick the wine,” Hermione said, her chin tilting downward.

Draco’s head lolled, his eyes alight. He fully rested his forearms against the counter, biting his tongue. If there was one joy Draco found in parties (somehow, he hated them, even though his mother hosted them monthly and he appeared completely at ease around a crowd), it was picking the alcohol.

“Not whiskey?” Draco challenged quietly.

Hermione shrugged. “Whatever gets them drunk.”

She had no interest in the “art.”

“Whiskey, then,” Draco decided, his smile wide.

Merlin, she could fall in love with that smile every hour.

Hermione turned back to the cutting board, her cheeks heating, only to pause when she caught sight of the letter resting on the windowsill.

“Oh! This came for you,” she said, snatching and offering it to him.

Draco’s brow furrowed as he stared at it. “Post on Christmas?”

Hermione shook her head, her eyebrows quirking. “I don’t know.”

“You didn’t open it?” Draco asked, straightening and taking the letter.

“Well, it came right before you were _supposed_ to get home, so I decided not to bother. Then I forgot. I assumed it was from your mother, though. She hasn’t sent anything in a bit. We should visit tomorrow—”

Hermione twisted, her voice cutting off. She had dragged her eyes away from the cutting board, only to see him standing as still as stone. His face was pale, paler than it usually was, and his eyes were far away, staring through the letter.

“Draco?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t move.

Hermione’s stomach dropped.

* * *

She used to bounce her leg erratically when she was anxious. Sometimes, she still bit at her lip until the skin was raw, but she wasn’t doing that now. Hermione stared down the hallway, absentmindedly spinning at the ring on her left hand. It was a simple ring; bright silver, a small diamond mounted at the center. Draco’s was even simpler. The band always caught light brilliantly when he ran his hand over his mouth in thought. Simple suited them.

Hermione couldn’t see the ring now. His hands were fisted in his pockets, his head low as he eyed the Healer in front of him. He contrasted everything in St. Mungo’s; his entirely black outfit stuck out against the gleam of the linoleum, the blank, white walls. The Healer continued to speak, glancing between his chart and Draco every once and awhile. A one-sided conversation, she knew, even from the distance.

Hermione sighed, sinking further into the uncomfortable seat. She dragged the Santa hat off her head, ignoring the way her hair frizzed and cracked with static. She played with the ball of fluff at the end, biting her lip hard. After a moment, she looked up again, flinching when the Healer reached out and patted Draco on the shoulder. The _last_ thing he wanted was to be touched. A muscle near his jaw twitched, and then he spun on his heel, striding away from the Healer with purposeful steps. Hermione tried to meet his eyes, but he refused, even when he practically threw himself into the chair next to hers and rested his head in his hand.

“You should go home,” Draco said, his voice rough like gravel.

Hermione frowned. “I’m not going home.”

“You shouldn’t be here on Christmas. They’re probably wondering where you are—”

“I told them not to come.”

Draco let out a breath and slid his hand over his eyes. Hermione stared at him, her heart slowing, matching the faint beeping of the room nearest to them. She knew he was running through every memory, every moment with his mother that he missed.

“What did the Healer say?”

Draco’s mouth twisted. “She probably won’t wake up,” he answered quietly.

Hermione blinked, attempting to swallow away the lump of lead in her throat. Without thinking, her hand reached for his, her fingers sliding between his own.

“We should go see her,” Hermione whispered, leaning to catch a better glimpse of his face.

“I can’t,” Draco choked. He dropped his hand, panic etched into his features. He struggled against himself, and Hermione knew he hated every moment that his sight grew blurry, every second that his eyes burned against the tears welling there.

Narcissa Malfoy had been entirely too kind to her. Funding most of their wedding, even sending her to the best boutique in the country. She always watched Hermione with a mysterious eye, like she knew everything about her. Hermione always assumed that she did; Draco could keep nothing from his mother. If there was anyone he loved more than her, it was Narcissa.

Hermione leaned into him, catching his chin with her free hand, forcing him to face her. “I’ll be by your side the entire time,” she said earnestly.

Draco closed his eyes, a tear finally falling onto his cheek. He rested his forehead against hers, clutching to her hand like she was the only thing grounding him.

“I should have—”

“You should have what?” Hermione interrupted gently. Her thumb grazed across his cheek. “You were the best son she could have asked for.”

Draco let out a shaky breath, nodding against her forehead. Even when he pulled away, stood, he took her with him. Their walk to Narcissa Malfoy’s room was slow, their fingers intertwined. Hermione couldn’t help but think of their wedding vows, the way Draco had smiled as she said them, as he repeated them.

_Through bad and good, I’ll be by your side the entire time._

* * *

2007

* * *

“Can’t go to sleep yet, Granger.”

Hermione groaned, pulling the comforter to her chin. She couldn’t help but love its warmth, even if it was a ridiculous color. Forest green. He just _had_ to have it his way, the dick.

“Says who?” she grumbled, keeping her eyes closed.

“Says the fucking world.”

“I thought we agreed to stay in so we _could_ sleep.”

She could see the smirk pulling over his lips. “I lied.”

Hermione pursed her lips, opening her eyes and giving him her deadliest glare. It didn’t last long, though. The moonlight streamed through the window above their bed, painting him in an ethereal blue. His smile deepened as her eyes traced over him, over the dip of his collarbones, over the gleaming white of the _sectumsepra_ scar that spidered across his chest. Even the shadows around him seemed to glow.

“You’re a deviant,” she finally accused.

“I’ll put it on my business card.”

“And a dick.”

“I take offense to _that_ ,” Draco drawled, his lips parting in mock surprise.

Hermione pulled at his arm, attempting to upend the way he propped himself over her. “Just _lay_ down, and you might sleep.”

“How can I sleep? I’m watching the new year roll in.”

“First, you lay your head on a pillow.”

Draco scoffed, playfully pushing away her arm.

“Then you close your eyes.”

“I don’t need a lecture on how to sleep.”

“You asked.”

Draco wasn’t listening anymore. Hermione watched as he craned his neck, his eyes catching magnificently against the moonbeams.

“It’s snowing,” he said quietly.

Hermione sighed, digging herself out of her nest and sitting up with him. She rested her chin against the windowsill, watching the flurries of tiny flakes fall against dark blue. She could watch it snow for hours, the invisible dance of the wind suddenly captured, enrapturing her.

“It’s beautiful,” she finally whispered.

She could feel Draco’s eyes on her. She tore herself away from the window, resting her cheek in her hand. He was beautiful too. Like snow himself, in the darkness. His hand lifted, gently pushing away a strand of her hair, his fingers grazing against her cheek, lighting her on fire.

“We _could_ ring in the new year,” he finally said, his voice low.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Draco—”

He didn’t let her say anything, instead leaning forward and silencing her. She let out a gasp as his lips met hers, her own hand finding purchase in his hair. Recovering quickly, she slid toward him, wrapping her leg around his and melding his chest to hers. His hand left her face, grabbing her hip and splaying across the small of her back as he was suddenly on top of her. Hermione whimpered when his mouth broke from hers, only to inhale sharply when he dived into her neck. Her arm wrapped around his back, pinning him against her as he travelled down, down, down—

A sharp wail broke the silence.

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin, propping herself up by her elbows. Draco groaned softly, resting his forehead against her stomach.

“ _Fuck_!” Hermione hissed.

Draco laughed, his breath hot against her.

“Why is she up?”

Draco didn’t answer, his shoulders shaking as he laid himself over her. He turned his face into his shoulder, unable to contain his laughter. Hermione glared at the top of his head, ignoring how his hair shone brilliantly in the darkness.

“Why are you laughing?” she demanded.

“She has perfect timing, doesn’t she?” Draco gasped out.

Hermione huffed, falling into the pillows behind her. Her hands slapped against her face, wincing as the crying got louder, impossible to ignore.

“It’s not funny,” she finally mustered.

Draco shifted, placing a kiss against her stomach as he rose from the bed. “I’ll get her,” he breathed out.

“ _No_ , you make her sleep. And then we sleep.”

Hermione peeked between her fingers, watching as Draco’s back retreated from their room.

“I’m serious, Draco!” she called after him.

No answer. Classic.

Hermione exhaled deeply, letting her head fall back fully. She watched the snow continue to fall – toward her, it seemed, breaking all laws of gravity. She imagined she was outside, laying in the snow as it surrounded her, buried her. It was a perfect night, for that; the world seemed silent, even though she knew it wasn’t.

She lifted her head again when his footsteps returned, unsurprised to see the small bundle of blankets in his arms. He was an enabler, to be sure, especially with their little girl.

“I said I was serious,” she said, but she couldn’t stop herself from pulling away the comforter, from sitting at the edge of the bed as he approached. Draco didn’t look up; if she was entranced by snow, by him, then he was entranced by her.

Hermione lifted her hand, tilting the edge of the blankets away to peer at her face. Her eyes followed the curve of her little nose, the slight part of her tiny lips as she breathed. God, who was she kidding. Hermione was entranced by her. She had been the moment she first held her.

“I think she’ll live up to the name,” Draco suddenly said, his fingers gently sifting through her haphazard, black hair.

Hermione looked up at him sharply, raising a brow. “Drowning in a river is how you want our daughter to be remembered?”

Draco narrowed his eyes, his lips pursing as he shook his head. “I always thought Ophelia was the best of them all.”

Hermione stared at him a moment, a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “She was,” she agreed. She touched at their daughter’s cheek, afraid to blemish her skin.

“Ophelia,” she said softly, her heart soaring when she stirred slightly, burrowing her face into Draco’s chest.

Hermione could feel his eyes on her again. She looked up at him, her other hand finding the small of his back and pulling him closer to the edge of the bed. She traced along the lines of his face, like he was the only thing that mattered.

“What time is it?” he asked quietly.

The ticks of her golden watch were in her ear. She didn’t need to check it.

“It’s midnight,” she answered.

The way he smiled. It was better than any snowfall.

“Aren’t you glad we stayed in?”

Hermione sometimes couldn’t believe that he was standing in front of her. A dick to the very end, but one that had her ring on his finger, one that held Ophelia like she was the most precious thing in the world. One that she loved with everything she had. She couldn’t help but smile back.

“I’ve never been happier.”


End file.
